


The Cost of Hubris

by Lthien



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles, tsoa
Genre: M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Song of Achilles - Freeform, achilles prov, the song of achilles told by achilles, tsoa - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:11:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lthien/pseuds/Lthien
Summary: "My first memory is a streak of red. It comes with a set of teeth. Sharp, lethal. As I grow older it comes with a name: Mother. She teaches me everything. To walk—to listen to the pulses of the brine of the ocean—she teaches me to not trust humanity. She tells me who I am. What I am meant to become. She tells me of my father. Her red mouth pulls over her godly teeth. She tells me of her hatred of him, and her great hope for me. My mother, who dangled me over a silvery pool, claiming to grant immortality…My mother who reluctantly gave me back to humanity, a hiss being her goodbye as her clammy fingers released my small, damp, ones."The Song of Achilles told by Achilles...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm doing it, I'm writing a full fic! Woo! You've probably guessed it...I wanted to hear more of Achilles side after reading TSOA and the Iliad is FULL of Achilles's pain. So. I'm gonna try. Yes I will be taking things from TSOA (the interactions etc) but I'm not going to full on copy the book. I think this will be fun, and I hope it to be, but I'm a novice writer so my reader's voices will be much appreciated! :) Also, it took me FOREVER to come up with a name for this...so I'm up for discussion about it. :D I really hope you guys enjoy it! I'll try to update as frequently as I can! Also, this is un-beta'd so I'm sorry if there are any spelling errors etc!

My first memory is a streak of red. It comes with a set of teeth. Sharp, lethal. As I grow older it comes with a name: Mother. She teaches me everything. To walk—to listen to the pulses of the brine of the ocean—she teaches me to not trust humanity. She tells me who I am. What I am meant to become. She tells me of my father. Her red mouth pulls over her godly teeth. She tells me of her hatred of him, and her great hope for me. My mother, who dangled me over a silvery pool, claiming to grant immortality…My mother who reluctantly gave me back to humanity, a hiss being her goodbye as her clammy fingers released my small, damp, ones.

My mortality comes from the King of Pthia. His eyes are warm as they meet mine. He kneels before me, his heir. I stand tall in the sand, remembering everything my mother taught me. Hate him. Hate them all. They are not worthy of me. “My Achilles.” My father says and wraps me in his embrace. I am in shock, the ‘o’ of my mouth pressed against fine, dyed, cloth. “You have grown so much in only a few short years.” I am six. I nod as he pulls away, the dampness of my hair clinging to my face. His hand is nice. It is not like mother’s...His is dry and comforting. For once in my life I follow a mortal.  
My mother told me once I was a prince. I learn what that means very quickly. As we enter my father’s castle we are met with multiple servants. They lead me away from my father and into another room. There lays a gilded tub filled with oils and different herbs. They scrub my skin. They comb my hair. I let them, shocked. I have never had a need for a bath before. I had never need for any of it. I am content to watch the humans work.

“You have such lovely hair, your highness,” one comments as she drags the comb over my scalp. I look at her. What does that matter? I simply nod as I touch my freshly combed stands, feeling the texture the bristles left behind. It is baffling. When they are done scrubbing they wrap me in new cloth. They place a golden circlet in my hair and bracelets on my wrists. They present me to my father this way.

My father greets me on his throne. There are others present and their mouths flutter like birds. Their eyes are curious. Their lips are fearful. I briefly wonder if they fear me. I cannot bring myself to care. My father shushes all with one finger. The spectators part as he stands. He greets me as he did on the beach. He touches my hair and smiles. “Now you are a son of Pthia.”

My life is uneventful my first year in Pthia. My lessons, my father tells me, are simple: learn. The servants do not talk to me, or I to them. I spend my days on the beach and in the trees, alone. There I learn what it means to be human. I learn what it means to be mortal. It first comes when I fall from an oak tree. The blood that escapes my knee shocks me. It angers me. It hurts. The tears that follow fill me with an emotion I have never felt before.

“What have you learned?” My father asks me over his goblet.

“Pain,” I tell him bitterly. My knee still stings. My father nods.

“Good,” he says with a smile.

It is the same each time. At the end of every day, without fail, my father will ask the same question, ‘what have you learned.’ In the beginning I would answer only to appease him. I found the question boring. What lessons? What could I learn? I wasn’t being taught anything. Not what my mother had promised anyway. I found the subject of my mother to be a difficult one early on. Whereas mother spoke with acid, father kept his lips sealed.

I think of my mother constantly. I miss the caves I was raised in. I miss the gods that claimed me as their own. I am bored with humanity. I do not wish to answer my father’s question any longer. _You are still young,_ my mother’s voice reminds me, _soon you will understand._

My life truly begins on my seventh birthday. It has been nearly one year exactly since I became a prince of Pthia. My father throws a lavish party. It is the most excitement I have yet to see. He invites warriors my mother and other godlings had spoken of. They bring gifts. They praise the prophesy of my becoming. It is the most fun I have had with humans. My mother sends a gift too. It is a necklace made of pearls and crystals. Her absence is not one unpredicted and I wear her necklace gladly. My father’s gift is a wooden sword. I look at it, unimpressed. My father laughs.

“Is it not your wish to learn, my son?” He asks me. I blink at him.

“Truly?” The sword begins to almost glow now with promise. I pick it up.

“I believe you are ready. You are to begin tomorrow.”

“And my teacher?” I spin my wrist, feeling my blood sing with new found joy. With a sweep of my father’s hand more than a dozen men step forward. Half I know to be warriors. The scars and ruggedness tell all. The others must be scholars. Philosophers of the old and new. All of them look at me greedily. I smile at each and every one of them, calculating. I point my oak sword at them. It may be my boyish narcissism but I believe a few to show a flash of fear. Not of me, but of my fate.

“Teach me all that you know.” I tell them. “In turn I will show you victory.”


End file.
